


One June Summer Morning

by rainbow_letters



Series: The Underground [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 07:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13049280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbow_letters/pseuds/rainbow_letters
Summary: Load your Oyster cards and prepare yourself for inevitable delays, as I introduce you to my new series 'The Underground'. This collection will feature one-shots of our Consultant Detective and his Pathologist on or around London's infamous public transportation system (usually at Sherlock's despair.)The second instalment. An incident at one of London's busiest stations is about to involve Sherlock Holmes, on a much closer scale than he would ever wish for.





	One June Summer Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Please note this is a fairly angsty fic. 
> 
> I wrote this based on the threats we live with daily in this modern world. Incidents that have shook the world and deeply moved us all in some way. I wanted to try and immerse Sherlock into a situation where he was completely powerless. To feel like you're falling into darkness because there is nothing anybody can say or do to make you feel differently.
> 
> With that, I bring you my second instalment of 'The Underground' series, One June Summer Morning.

"Breaking news from Kings Cross Tube Station this morning as what is suspected to be an explosive, blows up a tube carriage at around eight fifteen this morning." 

The mug in Sherlock's hands drops to the floor. Hot liquid burns his feet but the words spoken by the news reporter are rendering him numb. 

"It is not known yet how many casualties they are, in what is suspected to be a terrorist attack." 

Sherlock's stomach churns as he feels the bile rise in his throat. He walks towards the TV staring at the scene of an aerial view of Kings Cross train station. Police and people are everywhere. Hordes and hordes. He is kneeling down in front of the TV, his hands clenched around the plastic frame as he tries to examine the pixelated faces, desperately searching, his eyes flickering frantically. The journalist keeps talking but he doesn't hear them. Their words are meaningless now. 

He suddenly scrambles for his phone, his brain screaming to try something. Anything. He dials her number. 

Again. 

And again. 

It goes straight to that irritating woman who has the outright cheek to tell him 'sorry, his call cannot be taken at the moment.' He throws his phone hard against the sofa and it bounces up high before dropping down behind to the hard floor. 

Sherlock drops to his knees his head in his hands and breathes in long and deep. 

_She is probably on another tube and doesn't have signal at the moment. Likely to be stuck until she is rescued and evacuated. She did leave for work a minute earlier than usual this morning._

He glances up at the ceiling when his mind administers him an earth shattering thought. 

_Or she could be dead. You know there was a high probability she was on that train._

He doesn't have time to register what that means on a grander scale as Mrs Hudson screeches from below. Her footsteps heavy and clumsy up the wooden steps. 

"Sherlock! Oh, my Sherlock. Please tell me you've heard. Tell me she's alright." 

She is hysterical. By the time she is finishing her sentence she is by his side cradling his head against her thigh. He opens his mouth to say something but he has nothing to say. They stay like that for a short while until she grows restless. 

She is soon pacing back and forth in-front of the TV. Stopping every now and then, whenever a new bit of information trickles in. Anxiously chewing her finger nails and 'oh Sherlock'-ing every thirty seconds. 

Like a switch has been flicked in his mind he suddenly stands. Donned in nothing but his purple silk pyjamas and his camel dressing gown his feet carry him down the stairs and out into the street. 

He keeps on walking, despite the desperate calls of Mrs Hudson from the door step. 

In what feels like a lifetime, he eventually hails a cab. His hand touches the cold painted metal of the car door handle when he feels himself being tugged backwards. He turns to see John standing there. He is the picture of calm. John's mouth is moving but he can't hear the words. Then his hands firmly clasp his shoulders and shake him out of his trance. 

"Sherlock? Come on mate, let's get back inside." 

But Sherlock doesn't move he just turns to look at the door handle, still underneath his fierce grip. 

"Sherlock, there is no use going down there. Not until we hear anything. I've already spoken to Greg he promised he will keep us informed." A look passes across John's face. Sherlock remembers it distinctly from that moment in Sherringford. Now he was in the same situation again. Except this time, he has no influence or bearing on her life. He can't magically make her say some words and it would all be okay. No, this time he was in the middle of the ocean with no life raft and the waves were growing bigger. 

Before John can think or react Sherlock is suddenly in the backstreet of the black cab. He is shouting something to the driver as the car bursts into motion but Sherlock doesn't feel like he is present in his own body at present. 

Not a moment later the car jerks and John is stood in the middle of the road, his hands planted on the bonnet of the car. He skirts around to the passenger door and climbs in, he slams the door angrily. 

"Sherlock, I understand that right now it's really bloody hard to just sit back and wait. But what good can come of you being there in a sea of police, emergency services, journalists and the public. How do you expect to..." He trails off, unable to finish his sentence. Sherlock's blood is boiling. He doesn't mean to feel angry at his best friend but right now he has never felt so fucking helpless and terrified in his whole life. 

"I know you've spoken to my brother. I know exactly what he has instructed you to do because he knows if he even had the balls to ask me himself, I would still do the exact opposite. And the exact opposite is what I intend to do." John is staring back at him unsurprised that he has figured out Mycroft's plan to keep Sherlock away. "I can't just sit there, John. I can't." His voice cracks slightly and suddenly John's hand is on his shoulder again. He looks at John and he sees that he gets it. 

His own wife was shot and murdered. Of course he fucking gets it. 

"Fine, but I'm going to ring Mrs Hudson and let her know where you've bolted to and then I'll ring Greg. Not that he's going to be thrilled with you being there. And I know this whole morning is nothing but a pile of bloody horse shit, Sherlock." He turns his head slightly at the mention of his name. 

"But I'm right here for you. I'm not going anywhere mate." Sherlock feels the strangest sensation at his words, but he can't place his finger on the emotion. 

For the next five minutes John leaves him be, instead he focuses on the two calls he has to make. John tries to reassure Mrs Hudson that he has it all under control; he tells Greg that he never really had it in the first place, especially when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock just sits. And thinks. 

And thinks. 

The hatch on his mind palace is blown open and images of her flood his fore thought. All he can see is her. Just this one memory replaying in his head. She is lying in his bed, in an oversized Foo Fighters t-shirt, her hair an absolute mess in some sort of half-arsed ponytail and she’s laughing at a stupid joke Meena had text her. 

_"What is Mozart doing right now? Decomposing."_

She practically winded herself from laughter. And he smiled at her because, well, her happiness gave him the most overwhelming feeling. And she always seemed happiest when she was told a joke or two about death. 

_Death._

And then she was nothing. His memory faded and all he could picture was her beautiful petite body lying on a cold metal tray in Bart’s morgue. Her pale skin scarred and burnt. He must have had some sort of external reaction because John was shaking him. 

“Come on. Keep it together. We don’t know anything yet, don’t assume the worst.” 

The next thing he knows the cab driver is saying something over the tannoy. John responds with “it’s fine, we understand. Thanks for getting us this close though mate. Here, keep the change.” 

And then they are outside. 

The weather really is glorious today. She said it would be the moment she woke up this morning. She practically skipped to throw the curtains back whilst he slithered back under the sheets like a vampire. She soon crawled back up the bed on all fours and peppered kisses over his sheet covered torso. 

His thoughts disappeared as his feet tripped on the pavement. 

_Keep it together._

He looked to see if John was speaking to him again but he was on the phone to Greg. 

And then suddenly they were here. Sherlock sees the entrance to Kings Cross in the distance. His whole body freezes internally but he is being spurred by such a strong unknown force within that he was pushing past effortlessly any one in his path. John is following close behind, riding on his sudden momentum. Then he reaches the unmistakable blue and white plastic incident tape. A pathetic excuse for a barrier. 

He is over it before the police man a yard away can catch him. He isn’t sure where he is walking to, but out of the corner of his eye the silver hair of a certain DI comes galloping into view. 

“Sherlock!" Lestrade's hands are pushing firmly against his chest. "I know you’re used to crime scenes but this is like nothing you’ve experienced before. Look I know you’re probably not thinking straight but you can’t just waltz into a major operation in your bloody Pajamas!” Sherlock continues looking straight though him. 

“Greg!” John calls out breathlessly behind him. “Sorry, like I said it just sort of happened. Any news?” 

Greg doesn’t need to answer. His face says it all. Nothing. Blank. Useless. 

“Not yet. We’ve got a team down there assessing the situation. It’s not looking good. We’re looking at around thirty causalities so far. Most of them fatal or severely injured.” 

Sherlock continues staring at the underground sign shining like a beacon ahead. 

“My car is parked just behind here. Go and wait there 'til I have more news. I promise you’ll be the first to know when I hear something.” 

John and Greg are nodding to each other and John is soon walking in the direction Greg pointed to where his car is parked. Sherlock is about to follow when his ears tune in on a conversation between two paramedics. 

“They’re starting to evacuate the guys held up at Euston Square. I checked if they needed any medical backup but they don’t need any more cover at the moment, situation could change though.” 

If she is anywhere she could be there. He knew there was no way she could have gotten past King’s Cross at the time she left and the time of the explosion. 

Sherlock then took off in the complete other direction to John. Fairly quickly he works his way back out and through the crowd. John is nowhere to be seen. It would be too late for John to find him now. Sherlock is thankful for that. He wants to be on his own. His stride lengthening of its own accord as he proceeds down Euston Road. 

The eight-minute walk feels like a lifetime, but soon he is approaching the station. A mirror image of the scene of Kings Cross. Hordes of people crying, screaming, shouting. All anxious. All waiting for news with baited breath. 

He could try calling her again. 

His hand slides into his dressing gown pocket, but only finds the remnants of a tissue. 

_Shit._

Then he remembers his phone is currently lying underneath the sofa at Baker Street. 

He has no way of contacting her; No way for her to contact him. 

He starts to feel dizzy and light-headed, and the ground seems to be coming closer to him. 

A commotion at the front catches his attention. People are emerging from the tube entrance. 

A crush and swell as people surge forward desperate to see the faces of their loved ones. Hoping. Some even praying. He keeps his eyes straight ahead. But it is hard to focus when people all around are shoving out of pure desperation. 

Seconds, minutes, hours they all seem to pass, Sherlock could no longer distinguish between them. Still no sign. He feels himself growing increasingly restless as the crowd coming up the steps start to grow fewer. By the time the last few people are emerging he feels as if he could throw up. 

She isn’t there. And if she isn’t there that meant- 

Slowly people were dispersing as mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, loved ones were reunited. And then he was almost alone, spare a few other families who, like him, were clinging on to something. Blinded by hope that maybe just maybe her face would appear at the top of those steps. But in reality, he was lost. 

_Lost._

The road back to Kings Cross was one that he could not face right now. He had always been a logical man. In every situation he had ever encountered his reasoning always prevailed. But he was struggling to even give it the light of day, because his reasoning always held an element of truth. A truth he was not prepared to face. 

_One step at a time._

That’s all he could do. But with each step he knew his hope would diminish. He was on the verge of breaking. The cracks were already formed. 

_Deep breaths._

He started to count his steps, to take back the only control he could grasp at this moment. 

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_"Sherlock!"_

_Wait._

_"Sherlock!"_

It was her. She was screaming his name. How his mind was evil to play such tricks. Feeding off of his vulnerability. But then he had the weirdest gut feeling as his body demanded for him to turn around. 

And there she was. 

Exactly how she had left this morning. In her red floral sundress and hideously green ballet pumps. And she is running towards him. Her eyes full of tears. 

The moment she is in his arms, he remembers how to breathe again. 

“Sherlock.” She whispers into his neck and he embraces the heat from her breath and body as she presses herself into him. 

She is alive. 

“Molly.” He whispers back and she is peeling herself away slightly from his form to gaze up at him. His hands swooping down to cradle her face. To touch and remember every part of her skin, the wetness of her tears gliding easily over her cheeks. 

Her lips are against his own. It is senseless, erratic, impulsive. It was everything he is or had ever been. It was like she had kept a hold of the utter most core of his being and now she was returning it back to him. He kisses her back just as feverishly. 

“Sherlock, I’m-" She speaks against his lips. 

“Don’t. Please. Don’t speak. Not yet. Please just let me hold you.” So he does. 

In that early morning sunshine outside of Euston Square tube station he holds her. Savors her. And as the euphoria of relief and pure happiness floods through his veins his eyes grow wide. His heart beats hard and fast against his chest. A sudden realisation overcomes him. The exact same one he encountered that day at Sherringford. 

He loves her. Unconditionally and truly loves her. God, he will love her until his last breath. 

“I love you.” How beautiful it feels to still be able to say that in present tense. 

“I love you too.” She whispers back. “I tried to call but you weren’t answering.” Her hands are squeezing the back of his neck firmly. 

“I, er, let’s just say I wasn’t thinking straight this morning.” He cannot take his eyes off of her. 

“That would explain the look.” She looks at him so impishly. So utterly Molly. 

He laughs out loud. Feels the release of tension, sorrow and grief lift from his bones. He kisses her again then. Hungrily and selfishly. 

He sees a flash from a camera some metres away and although he knows what has just happened, he could hardly care. 

Everything he wants right now is right here in his arms. His Pathologist. His Molly Hooper. 

\-------------------------- 

Baker Street is peacefully quiet, except the sound of glugging liquid as it is poured into a mug. Sherlock picks up the steaming cup of coffee from the worktop and walks down the hall towards his bedroom. The summer sun bursts through the edges of the curtains, despite it still only just gone seven in the morning. 

This doesn't seem to affect the dozing form in his bed. 

He glances to her hand lying on the pillow beside her head. The newly added feature on her finger twinkles even in the low light of the bedroom. 

He places the cup down onto the stack on medical books, which currently overrun the bedside table. He places a soft kiss to her temple and watches as a slight frown forms on her features as he disturbs her slumber. His lips stay close to her skin but hover to the shell of her ear. 

"You do know it was your idea to invite my parents out for a celebratory breakfast at The Ritz. I would be more than happy to call the whole thing off and just spend the morning in bed with you." Her hands slowly wind around his neck like vines and pull him in for a lazy kiss. 

When he pulls back her eyes are now open and she is running a hand through his bedhead curls at the nape of his neck. The moment between them grows deep and he knows she feels it too. The scars are still raw from that fateful day. He can hardly stand to let her out of his sight. She hasn’t stayed at her own flat since. To think that he could have lost her. Again. He gulps at the mere thought and suddenly she is sat upright in the bed next to him, comforting him. He swears she has a trip wire set up to alert her, whenever his thoughts turn dark. 

"Hey, I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere. You made sure of that, remember?" She holds her left hand in front of his face and smiles. 

He grabs it with his own and places a chaste kiss to her dainty fingers. 

"I do." He stares longingly into her brown eyes, wanting nothing more than to sweep her into his arms and make love to her. "But mother does hate poor punctuality, especially at public gatherings. And I cannot be doing with receiving an earful from her when I also have to endure her happy side for the better part of two hours." He picks the mug up and places it into her hands. "So, drink up and shower." He finishes with a quick kiss to her forehead, before standing and leaving the room. 

As he enters the kitchen he proceeds to prepare his own coffee. He grabs the sugar out of the cupboards and turns to reach the door of the fridge, when he stops suddenly. 

A newspaper trimming from the front page of a well-known tabloid hangs proudly, secured by one of Mrs Hudson's gimmicky fridge magnets of London Bridge. It is a photo of Sherlock and Molly in a fierce embrace. Mrs Hudson must have brought it up early this morning. Sherlock's long, elegant finger strokes the printed CYMK form of Molly Hooper and he laughs at his ridiculous outfit combination of silk pajamas and Gucci brogues. 

He must remember to thank Mrs Hudson later and to buy another copy of that paper. 

And a really nice picture frame.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to keep loving guys.
> 
> Love like each day is your last.
> 
> More works in the pipeline.


End file.
